Weighted towel hangs
the way blood lets.
Water from bloated faucet,
fresh banalities, arguing.
Back home
a litany of terrors
crack the light on the landing
down the side of the bed.
I had forgotten how yellow the lamps are
like sickness, or the sea,
so I sleep for hours
in this house a hypnagogic jerk.
In the small hours,
in separate rooms we wake
hold ourselves in doorways
open wounds
which silently scab open.
Certain only of inhospitality I find
the bathroom’s livered light,
and immersion heater, still glowing
on.
